merriment of the vassals was loud and unremitting. The bridegroom,
however, did not seem to enjoy the situation in which he found himself
placed. He fidgeted upon his seat, and turned his eyes alternately to
the ceiling and to the wall, as if he suspected that more than half the
joviality of the party was at his expense. His embarrassment was
increased by the malicious endeavours of his bride, who rallied him upon
his gravity and look of despondency, in a style to which he had
evidently no spirits to reply.
It must be confessed that the young man’s suspicions were not altogether
without foundation. The occupants of the lower part of the board, who,
of course, were the most obstreperous in their mirth, were, from time to
time, indulging themselves in very acute criticisms upon the figure and
features of their master’s son-in-law. These did not altogether answer
their expectations. Much as they contemned the Normans, they had
pictured to themselves, in the person of Reginald d’Arennes, a
countenance noble even to sternness, and a bearing at once courteous and
martial. They knew he was a Norman, but they also knew he was a handsome
and a friendly Norman; in consequence of which they had made up their
minds to hate him, and, at the same time, to find nothing in him worthy
of hate. They were much surprised, therefore, when they found the young
Knight so perfectly different from the image report had drawn. His face
seemed perfectly void of all expression of majesty or valour. At present
its predominant expression was embarrassment, mingled with a strong
tincture of fear; but there was a slight curve upon the lips, and a sly
twinkle under the eye, which betrayed a strong disposition to cunning
and risibility. His figure appeared slender and diminutive, and a
gorgeous steel harness hung dangling about it, as if the bark of the
forest oak had been stripped off to give an appearance of strength to
the willow. This was all very strange: the attendants looked, and
laughed, and wondered; and Leofwyn showed no disposition to check their
humour. Indeed he seemed to participate cordially in their malicious
propensities.
“Sir Knight,” said he, “methinks there is in thy demeanour a greater
degree of bashfulness than thy noble presence and thy lofty lineage do
warrant.”
“It is a feeling,” replied the guest, “which I have inherited from my
mother Bridget--I mean, from my mother the Lady Marie,” he added,
turning very pale.
“Ha, ha!” exclaimed his entertainer; “now, by my verity, I dreamed not
thy father had been so gay in his young days. What! play the Lady Marie
false! Come, come, it was ill done, ill done; she was a lady of most
excellent carriage; it was ill done. But be not cast down. The sin was
not thine. Pledge me, noble Reginald. Thou standest in need of
refreshment; for, in truth, thy look is weariness itself, and thou art
as silent as the oaken board on which thou leanest. Come, come, the
pigment is worth the tasting.”
Reginald blushed, and seemed doubting whether it were not well to make a
precipitate retreat. The Lady Elfrida turned away her head, and let down
her veil, with a gesture of affected horror at the indelicate sallies of
her father. Nothing daunted, the old man continued his pertinacious
system of annoyance, while the domestics applauded, by ill-repressed
acclamations, the surprising jocularity of their lord.
“Thou art sparing of thy food, Sir Knight; but doubtless thou art used
to other diet than this: the board of a Saxon thane hath but little to
tempt the palate of the son of a Norman noble.”
“Thou wrongest thine own hospitality, noble thane,” replied the other,
collecting his spirits, and making an effort to be polite. “Womanly
indeed should I be, if I were not used to harder fare than this! My
father, the forester--that is, I mean, my father, the baron.” And again
Reginald looked confused, and paused, and was silent.
“Cheer thee, noble Reginald,” said his host; “thou art wearied with thy
journey, and thy wits wander.” “Perchance,” said the fair Elfrida, “Sir
Reginald hath lost them on the way!” The menials echoed applause, and
Reginald looked yet more foolish than before. “Thou dost belie thy
character strangely,” continued the old man; “fame hath told us that in
the whole shire there is not a jollier boon companion nor a truer lover
of the cup.” “It is true that Sir Reginald d’Arennes hath had that
reputation,” replied the Norman, “and his best friends have judged that
he would do well to put it away.” “By the holy Confessor,” cried
Leofwyn, “not upon his wedding-day! Out upon the idea! What, ho! Osric,
fill up for Sir Reginald. Pledge me, gallant Knight. The health of thy
bride--of Elfrida!”
“I will do thee reason,” said Reginald, raising the cup to his lips;
but, at the mention of the name of Elfrida, some of the vassals burst
into such a clamorous fit of laughter that he set it down in
astonishment.
Leofwyn remarked his surprise, and endeavoured to dispel it. “Thou
seest, good son, that there is a kind of pageant toward, at which these
boors are marvellously pleased; but be not the less inclined to join in
our banquet. We wait but for the arrival of my son Lothaire, and all
disguise shall be stripped off.” “Disguise!” cried the guest, dropping
the cup, and starting from his seat, “a murrain on the tell-tale! How
didst thou learn----” “Nay, my son,” said the Saxon, as if endeavouring
to retract an unguarded expression, “we are all somewhat disguised--in
liquor.”
Reginald resumed his seat, and, in a short time, began to drink most
valorously, as if striving to drown in the rich pigment some unpleasant
suspicions. By degrees, his head, which was evidently weaker than the
one fame had attributed to Reginald d’Arennes, began to be overpowered
by the frequent potations which were forced upon him by his host; and
while Leofwyn and his retainers, and even the modest Elfrida, were
immensely amused by his awkward situation, the hapless bridegroom showed
the effects of Saxon hospitality in rhapsodical and unintelligable
exclamations.
“Of a truth, good thane, thy drink is marvellous good! marvellous good
is thy drink! Better have not I tasted since we rifled old Ambrose, the
hermit of Torney Low! Very rich was the old rogue: he had store of gold
and of silver, and an admirable cellar withal. Right merry we were and
jovial; and, for the hoary man, we made him sit by the board, and chaunt
a merry stave. That did I; for truly my fellow thief had some quirks of
conscience. Health to the old man! May his bags and his cellar be
replenished before next Whitsuntide! What care I for abbot and friar,
mitre and cowl! I roam through glade and greenwood, over hill, and rock,
and stream, free as the hawk, free as the passing wind. Marry, I had
forgot how I have linked myself to a wife! Kiss me, fair Elfrida! I love
thee very much, Elfrida; but thou knowest, when war calleth us away, we
soldiers leave ye like a whistle. How dost thou, old father-in-law, how
dost thou? Of a verity, thy face is as black as a November cloud, and
that spear by thy side is wondrous sharp: it is well I have a Milan
corselet. Mark ye my Milan corselet, father and bride? The zecchins that
were paid for it! It hath not borne blow yet. Certainly I like not
blows; but the lace of my helmet is snapped in twain. Thy son, most
noble Leofwyn, could explain unto thee the manner of it. Surely it was a
mighty blow, and a perilous, given with a strong arm and a right
goodwill. Launcelot shook like an aspen leaf. Howbeit, noble Saxon, thy
drink is marvellous good; it maketh a man valorous, and doth as it were
put to flight the whimsies, and the visions, and the phantasies of the
brain. Fill up, valiant Leofwyn! Plague on them that flinch! Mine
harness is much soiled for a wedding garment, but I shall wear a new
doublet to-morrow. A blight upon the brambles in the coppice! How now,
good father-in-law, why dost thou not speak? Thy face is as round as the
bowl, and as silent as the roasted crab that is floating within it. Fill
up! Off with care! Shall I not be merry, when steel, and nobility, and a
wife are put upon my shoulders?”
“My lord groweth complimentary,” said Elfrida, hardly able to speak for
laughter. “I do feel afraid that the air of Kennet Hold, and the drink
it affords, have somewhat unsettled his brains!”
“Beautiful Elfrida,” said the bridegroom, “true it is that the brains of
Sir Reginald had a terrible knock this day, and thy brother knows whence
it came; but we will forget these quarrelsome topics, and give up the
evening to merriment. My brains are as firm as thine own. Marry, the
wine is marvellous good!” He was sinking gradually into intoxication.
“I marvel wherefore Lothaire delayeth his coming,” said Leofwyn.
“Truly,” replied Elfrida, “it were well to conclude the farce without
him. I am weary of this mummery.”
“Mar-vel-lous good!” repeated the Norman, and closed his eyes.
“Girl,” said Leofwyn, “thou speakest foolishly; until my son’s return we
will keep up the disguise.”
“Disguise!” cried Reginald, recovering some little sense of what was
going forward. “Who talked of disguise? Was it thou, most rustic
Leofwyn, or thou, most black-browed Elfrida? Who talked of disguise? I
care not. If I am not----”
A loud and piercing shriek interrupted the speaker. You might have
thought all the maidens of the shire had conspired to deafen the ears of
the Saxon proprietor. A door was suddenly flung open, and a warder, with
terror and consternation pictured on every limb and feature, rushed up
to the daïs, and bending his head as if to receive the chastisement
which his negligence would call down, exclaimed, “The Lady Elfrida hath
been taken away from the castle!”
It were difficult to describe minutely the astonishment which pervaded
the hall. Vassals and menials of every degree snatched their arms and
fled from the apartment.
Nothing was heard but inquiries, and weeping, and imprecations. Nothing
was known but that the lady had been within the last few minutes carried
off by a strange knight mounted on a swift bay horse, and attended by
one follower. It was supposed that he must have entered and departed by
swimming the moat, which, as it was now midnight, was an attempt by no
means impracticable. He had been seen by a peasant who was returning
from an adjacent forest; his lovely prize was thrown across a led
palfrey, and appeared to be in a swoon.
All was confusion. The retainers of Leofwyn ran to and fro in all
directions but the right one. Armour resounded with a dismal clang, as
it was hastily thrown over the shoulders of the domestics; torches were
flinging their red glare in every direction; the voices of the pursuers
were repeated by frequent echoes, as they shouted and called to one
another through the darkness. In the meantime the chief personages in
the hall were in a situation partaking strongly of the ludicrous. The
black-eyed damsel, who had figured throughout the banquet as the
daughter of Leofwyn, had cried out, as the warder had delivered his
news, “My dear mistress, my poor mistress!” and fainted upon her throne.
The bridegroom had been in some measure roused from his intoxication,
but was still unable to collect his ideas, so as to form any idea of the
origin or meaning of the tumult. Leofwyn appeared to be in a state of
mental stupefaction. In spite of the foibles of the old man’s character,
he was doatingly fond of his daughter; and the news of her loss, coming
in the midst of revelry, seemed to have withered him like a
thunder-bolt. He sat still, looking on the confusion with a vacant gaze,
and inquiring from time to time, “Is my daughter well? How fares it with
the Lady Elfrida? Does she not come to her old father?” These three
personages, therefore, remained quietly upon their seats, while every
one around them was in commotion; like the bronzed images in modern
halls, that hold their candelabras so calmly, while the guests are all
in the bustle of departure.
Things remained in this disagreeable position for some minutes, when the
blowing of a horn, and a loud talking and shouting without, announced
that something had taken place. Presently, accompanied by a crowd of
peasants half accoutred for the pursuit, Lothaire entered the hall.
Leofwyn raised his head, and being in some measure recalled to his
recollection by the sight of his son, repeated his inquiry, “Is my
daughter well?”
“She is well!” said Lothaire, “and I am well! No thanks to my new
friend, the doughty Sir Richard de Mallory, from whom, to say truth,
mine headpiece hath received a most mischievous contusion. Thanks to
thee, good steel,” he continued, taking off his helmet, and surveying
the deep indenture which appeared on its summit; “had not thy temper
been true, thy master’s head had lain on the couch from which no man
lifteth himself up.” He was interrupted by a thousand interrogatories, a
great proportion of which proceeded from Leofwyn, who had by this time
recovered from the effects of his sudden shock, and began to feel great
curiosity to know the particulars of the story.
“I know but little of the matter,” said Lothaire; “ye see I have been
overthrown in no light fashion”--(they perceived for the first time that
his apparel bore marks of a recent fall)--“and in truth had it not been
for the intervention of my good friend in the ragged doublet, I had
hardly lived to tell ye the tale.”
“Of whom dost thou speak?” said Leofwyn.
“That is more than I can tell,” replied the young Saxon. “Not many paces
hence did I encounter the valorous Sir Richard, who is now, peace be
with him, no longer a man of this world. I had a heavy stroke, as ye
may witness; nevertheless, it was my horse’s fault, or I had not been so
foiled. I believe another minute would have caught the last breath of
Lothaire, but for the help of the aforesaid knight of the ragged
doublet. By the sword of Harold! he overthrew that proud Norman as if he
were wrestling with a child. I saw not his features, but by his apparel
he seemed to be the esquire of thine hopeful son-in-law, Reginald
d’Arennes. But ye will see him presently.”
Lothaire was supported from the hall, and put under the care of the
leech; for his wound, although he made so light of it in his story, wore
a dangerous appearance.
As he retired, another loud acclamation announced the arrival of
Elfrida’s deliverer. A tall, well-made figure advanced towards the daïs,
clad, as Lothaire had intimated, in a short ragged doublet, with a small
cap which was quite insufficient to confine the long dark tresses that
floated luxuriantly down his neck. His arm supported the real Elfrida,
whose personal charms amply deserved the encomium which had been
lavished upon them in the forest. Animation seemed hardly restored to
that beautiful form. Her eyes were half closed and her cheek very pale.
“Providence be thanked,” cried Leofwyn, “that my child is restored to
me!”
Now it has been already hinted that Elfrida was possessed of a
disposition somewhat untractable; in fact, loth as I am to speak aught
ill of the fair sex, I must confess that the Lady Elfrida partook, in no
trifling degree, both of the fantastic whims of her father Leofwyn and
the violent obstinacy of her brother Lothaire. The reader, therefore,
will not be surprised when he hears that the Saxon beauty, bowing
respectfully to her father, thus addressed him:
“Not to thee, my father, not to thee is thy daughter restored; in good
and in evil, in life and in death, she shall abide with her
preserver--with him who hath delivered her from the grasp of the
spoiler.”
“Thou art mad, my child!” said the old man in astonishment; “the knight
that sued for thee thou didst contemn and reject, and wilt thou now wed
with his serving-man?”
Elfrida appeared to recollect the circumstances which had preceded her
capture, the suitor who had solicited her hand, and the deceit which she
had conspired to put upon him: she looked up to the daïs, and beheld
Bertha, her waiting-woman, seated by the side of the Norman guest; she
glanced round and met the eye of her preserver turned upon her with an
expression of the deepest adoration. She looked no further, but
immediately, addressing her father, said:
“Why should it not be so, my father? To-day thou hast married thine
handmaid to the Knight; to-morrow thou shalt marry thy daughter to the
Knave.”
Her unknown deliverer at these words began to stare about him; he gazed
upon his dress, upon his attendants, upon Elfrida; and then, with all
the embarrassment of a performer who comes forward to play in a pageant
without the smallest acquaintance with his part, observed: “This morning
was I a knight, mounted on a goodly steed, and clad in goodly apparel;
but whether I am now Norman or Saxon, knight or knave, by my
grandfather’s sword--I doubt.”
Leofwyn stared; his large eyes were dilated into a truly comic
expression of astonishment. “Who art thou?” he cried at last to the
bridegroom; “art thou Reginald d’Arennes, or must we hang thee for a
rogue?”
“Peace, good father-in-law,” said the sham Reginald, shaking off his
drunkenness, and leering around him with an arch look of
self-satisfaction; “I am not Reginald d’Arennes, but yet as good a man!
I am Robin, the son of Egwulph; truly a cunning knave, and a wily.”
“I do begin to perceive,” said the waiting-woman, Bertha, looking on the
sham Reginald with a disappointed air, “that our plot hath altogether
failed.”
“Mine hath fared no better!” said the knave, returning a glance of equal
disappointment upon the mock Elfrida. “In this I have been but a silly
knave, and a witless!”
Dost thou comprehend, gentle reader, the circumstances which led to
these mistakes? or is it necessary for me to inform thee that the knave
Robin proceeded to Kennet Hold in Reginald’s apparel, with the purpose
of revenging, by his wedding with the heiress, the death of his master,
which he fancied had been occasioned by the heir; that at Kennet Hold
the said knave met with the counterplot which had been prepared by the
jocose Saxon, and became the husband of the maid instead of the
mistress; that Reginald, recovering from his swoon after the departure
of his attendant, advanced towards Kennet Hold, and encountered, in his
way, his new acquaintance, Richard de Mallory, from whom he had the good
fortune to rescue the life of Lothaire and the honour of Elfrida?
There is yet one point unexplained. The reader must be aware that a
considerable interval took place between the memorable blow given by
Lothaire and his rencontre with De Mallory. Upon this point the MS.
makes mention of Winifred, a certain arch-damsel, who---- but Decorum
puts her forefinger on her mouth--I have done.
Rather than desert a long established custom, I proceed to state that
the personages of my tale lived and loved to a green old age. Robin died
before it was thoroughly decided whether he was more properly termed
“the Wily” or “the Witless.” Reginald, it appears, never got rid of his
old trick of hesitation, for it is upon record that, when he told the
story of his adventures to Cœur de Lion, at the siege of Acre, and was
asked by the humorous monarch whether the knight or the knave were the
more fortunate bridegroom, he scratched his chin for a few minutes,
played with his sword for a few more, and replied slowly, “I have doubts
as touching this matter.”
MAD--QUITE MAD!
“Great wits are sure to madness near allied.”--DRYDEN.
It has frequently been observed that Genius and Madness are nearly
allied; that very great talents are seldom found unaccompanied by a
touch of insanity, and that there are few bedlamites who will not, upon
a close examination, display symptoms of a powerful, though ruined,
intellect. According to this hypothesis, the flowers of Parnassus must
be blended with the drugs of Anticyra; and the man who feels himself to
be in possession of very brilliant wits may conclude that he is within
an ace of running out of them. Whether this be true or false, we are not
at present disposed to contradict the assertion. What we wish to notice
is the pains which many young men take to qualify themselves for Bedlam,
by hiding a good, sober, gentleman-like understanding beneath an
assumption of thoughtlessness and whim. It is the received opinion among
many that a man’s talents and abilities are to be rated by the quantity
of nonsense he utters per diem, and the number of follies he runs into
per annum. Against this idea we must enter our protest; if we concede
that every real genius is more or less a madman, we must not be supposed
to allow that every sham madman is more or less a genius.
In the days of our ancestors, the hot-blooded youth who threw away his
fortune at twenty-one, his character at twenty-two, and his life at
twenty-three, was termed “a good fellow,” “an honest fellow,” “nobody’s
enemy but his own.” In our time the name is altered; and the fashionable
who squanders his father’s estate, or murders his best friend--who
breaks his wife’s heart at the gaming-table, and his own neck at a
steeple-chase--escapes the sentence which morality would pass upon him,
by the plea of lunacy. “He was a rascal,” says Common Sense. “True,”
says the World, “but he was mad, you know--quite mad.”
We were lately in company with a knot of young men who were discussing
the character and fortunes of one of their own body, who was, it seems,
distinguished for his proficiency in the art of madness. “Harry,” said a
young sprig of nobility, “have you heard that Charles is in the King’s
Bench?” “I heard it this morning,” drawled the Exquisite; “how
distressing! I have not been so hurt since poor Angelica (his bay mare)
broke down. Poor Charles has been too flighty.” “His wings will be
clipped for the furture!” observed young Caustic. “He has been very
imprudent,” said young Candour.
I inquired of whom they were speaking. “Don’t you know Charles Gally?”
said the Exquisite, endeavouring to turn in his collar. “Not know
Charles Gally?” he repeated, with an expression of pity. “He is the best
fellow breathing; only lives to laugh and make others laugh; drinks his
two bottles with any man, and rides the finest mare I ever saw--next to
my Angelica. Not know Charles Gally? Why everybody knows him! He is so
amusing! Ha! ha! And tells such admirable stories! Ha! ha! Often have
they kept me awake”--a yawn--“when nothing else could.” “Poor fellow!”
said his lordship; “I understand he’s done for ten thousand!” “I never
believe more than half what the world says,” observed Candour. “He that
has not a farthing,” said Caustic, “cares little whether he owes ten
thousand or five.” “Thank Heaven!” said Candour, “that will never be the
case with Charles: he has a fine estate in Leicestershire.” “Mortgaged
for half its value,” said his lordship. “A large personal property!”
“All gone in annuity bills,” said the Exquisite. “A rich uncle upwards
of fourscore!” “He’ll cut him off with a shilling,” said Caustic.